


An Imbalance of Letters

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Prompt Fic, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 09:10:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7526824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson could not help but notice the imbalance. Written for JWP #18: Handwritten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Imbalance of Letters

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: A distinct lack of plot (again). Schmoop. And absolutely no beta. This was written in a complete rush. You have been warned.

Given our respective natures, and in my case, my second profession, it is unsurprising that in our long association, I have written far more letters to Holmes than I have ever received from him. True, we have not had many occasions where a written correspondence was needed, for we have been far more often together than apart. But where circumstances did arise – for example, the Baskerville case – for every page I sent him, I was lucky if I received a sentence in return. For many years, the longest written communication I had received was the note I thought was the last I would _ever_ have from him, the missive he scribbled hastily in a high Swiss meadow beside Reichenbach Falls.  
  
I might have thought this merely characteristic of the man, this general terseness in written communication. It was easy enough pass off as a tendency towards efficiency and economy above all – a man whom would never send a letter where a wire would serve. However, I knew perfectly well he maintained a regular, and voluminous, correspondence with over dozen others over the years. So it was not a lack of letter-writing skill in general, or a dislike of writing long letters in particular, that lay at the root of the matter, no matter what impression I gave otherwise in my written cases.   
  
It was a mystery to me. A minor one, but one that occasionally plagued me, a reminder among many that even after years together, I did not understand him a quarter as well as I wished I did. It might have remained unexplained, had I not come across one particular common-place book among the multitudes Holmes maintained. He was out gathering data for a case, and I was looking for a particular reference at his request. I pulled out what I thought was the correct volume, only to discover that instead of pages full of newspaper-clippings and articles carefully pasted in and labelled, I held a record of every single thing I had ever written to him. Letters, notes, telegrams; all carefully preserved, even including the envelopes in which they had arrived. The labels were just as careful and precise as in any of his other volumes, detailing when each had arrived, and under what circumstances they had been written. There were some other notes, too, written on the margins where each page was affixed, never on the original documents themselves.   
  
A casual observer might have assumed that this was just another kind of Index, a cross-reference of sorts for Holmes’ own case records. But I saw the truth of the matter at once, and I had the answer to the mystery that had plagued me besides.  
  
“It is true,” Holmes admitted to me later that evening, once the doors were locked, the curtains drawn, and all others had long gone to bed. “Even as you have no talents for disguise or dissimulation in person, but are masterful at crafting stories that conceal as much as they tell on the page, it is just the opposite for me. I have never been able to write at any length on a subject of interest without revealing the depth of that interest. And you, my dear man, have long held my deepest attention. I have never dared write you more than the briefest of missives for exactly that reason.”  
  
For our protection, he meant, mine as much as his, and I knew how necessary that was. I loved him for it, and yet I could not help a mild complaint. “I see that now. But Holmes, why did you never tell me this before?”  
  
Holmes looked surprised. “My dear Watson, I thought you knew! I was sure you’d seen it long ago.”  
  
I shook my head. “You never wrote me enough for me to learn.”  
  
He gave me a half-smile. “I’m afraid I will continue to fail to do so, if only to keep others from discovering what they must not know. But I will endeavour to provide you enough other evidence, in my own fashion.”  
  
What could I say to that? Nothing that words could adequately express, but I did my best to show my appreciation, then and later.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted July 18, 2016


End file.
